


Two Years Later

by GeekChick1013



Category: Alles was zählt
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-20 20:29:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekChick1013/pseuds/GeekChick1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after Roman leaves Deniz and Essen to move to Paris with Marc, something happens that makes him wonder if he made the right decision...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman thinks about Deniz sometimes...

Roman thought about Deniz sometimes.   
  
It wasn’t that unusual, of course. To think about exes. Even after two years. Even when they were living in different countries. Even when he was lying in bed next to Marc and unable to sleep because he was haunted by soft brown eyes filled with tears.   
  
He didn’t obsess over Deniz anymore. Just thought about him, sometimes.   
  
It didn’t help when he came across Deniz’s picture in a magazine, modeling sportswear or partying with other beautiful people. In one of the pictures Deniz had been dancing close with a tall blond man, in another kissing a ginger woman. Roman was tempted to roll his eyes and start in on the mental commentary, the ones that always started with  _same old Deniz..._  but he stopped himself. It was a dangerous road to go down, the one that started with those words.   
  
Mostly he was happy with Marc. They reveled in the Parisian culture, attending the theatre and visiting museums and debating over cheese in little cafés along the Seine. They never went to the clubs because Marc thought the clubs were gaudy. Mostly Roman didn’t miss them. Just once in a while, when he saw those pictures of Deniz dancing with some other model and remembered the way Deniz would sometimes grab Roman and pick him up as they twirled around the dance floor. How easily Deniz made him feel like he was flying.   
  
 _Ridiculous,_  he reminded himself, when these thoughts rose stubbornly from the depths.  _You are 32 years old. You do not need to be grinding around a dance floor with someone half your age._  That made perfect sense.   
  
He never told Marc, of course. Even when they’d been together all those years ago, Marc had always been the jealous type. And of course the break-up with Deniz had been long and particularly painful. More so than any other break-up Roman had been through before, including the  _first_  one with Deniz. That had been a walk in the park compared to their more recent break-up. A million times he had doubted himself, his decision, his feelings for Marc. But in the end, with time and distance, he knew he’d done the right thing. Marc and Roman made sense. Deniz and Roman did not, no matter how much they loved each other. No matter how much they bent and stretched and tried to fit into each other’s edges. There were just too many differences, too many spaces to fill once the passion had ebbed.   
  
Marc, on the other hand… they had so much in common that they could talk for hours on end. And yeah, ok, the physical part wasn’t quite the same as it had been with Deniz. So what? There was so much more to make up for it. And really, comparing Marc to Deniz simply wasn’t fair... there was no one Roman had ever been with who compared to Deniz. He’d been painfully awkward at first, unsure, like a wobble-legged new pony loping through the grass for the first time. What he lacked in experience he made up for in raw enthusiasm, an endless desire to learn, the giddy joy in finding just the right spot to make Roman squirm and gasp and lose control. And of course the chemistry between them, even when they weren’t making love, was unlike any he’d had with anyone else before or since. Just a touch, a look, could send bolts of electricity running through his body, even after they’d known each other for years, even after all the heartbreak and anger and fear, even after they’d been together so long that he should have gotten used to kissing Deniz, touching him. With everyone else that thrill faded, changed, become something still very lovely if not so mind-blowing. With Deniz that fade never seemed to happen. And it was only with Deniz that he laughed so much, during.   
  
It was better now. With Marc. Less laughter, maybe, and an end to that desperate, aching desire that never seemed to leave him with Deniz. It was normal with Marc. There were so many ways they  _fit_  that he hadn’t with Deniz. Although, in the interest of fairness towards  _Deniz,_  they hadn’t exactly existed in some sort of sweaty, growling vacuum. They had never wanted for topics of discussion. And they mostly agreed on everything; when they didn’t, they managed to find enough of a middle ground to put it to rest. And of course they  _knew_  each other in this way that seemed so easy. Easier than with Marc, who sometimes baffled Roman despite their similarities. In those frustrating moments Roman would sometimes let himself wonder about Marc. About how he’d listened to Marc’s endlessly logical diatribes on how much more appropriate they were for each other than Deniz and Roman. About how he, Marc,  _understood_  Roman in ways that Deniz never could, because he was simply too young and too... well...  _Deniz._  Roman would remember those seemingly endless conversations, and how he could never seem to find any holes in Marc’s logic, and how in time he’d come around to seeing things from Marc’s perspective. How much better it would be to just end things with Deniz now rather than dragging it out for some unknown amount of time only to have it end anyway. Roman wondered at how Marc seemed to know exactly what it was about his relationship with Deniz that scared Roman the most, and assure him that those fears were not unfounded, were in fact simply Roman’s own mind trying to tell him what his heart wasn’t ready to hear: that Deniz and Roman simply weren’t meant to be.   
  
In the end Roman had agreed to follow Marc to Paris, so that they could make plans for a European tour for the ice show. At the time Roman thought it likely he would come back to Essen at some point... but two years later he was still firmly entrenched in Marc’s spacious flat overlooking a tree-lined street in Paris and there were no plans in place to change that. Roman thought sometimes about how he’d refused a similar situation years before even meeting Deniz, not wanting to be anyone’s boy-toy. This was different, of course; Roman was working, paying the bills, supporting himself. But occasionally he wondered... why was he really here?  _Because you love Marc. Because it’s what we wanted._  
  
And sometimes, Roman thought about Deniz.


	2. Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deniz never lets himself think about Roman...

Deniz never let himself think about Roman.  
  
That time of his life, two years ago, had been a nightmare. The appearance of Marc, the slow decay of his relationship with Roman, feeling Roman slip away no matter how tightly Deniz held on, no matter how hard he fought for him. It had been the worst time in Deniz's life, worse even than the dark days after he had woken up from the haze of drugs and parties. It had been bad... so bad that Deniz put it out of his mind.  
  
He worked, as much as he could. He went back to the party scene, but not blindly, not without control. He stayed away from drugs, reined in the drinking. He kept track of his time and actions. He gave every appearance of being mature, responsible, and in control. He had only one vice, one weakness.  
  
Most of them, he didn't even try to remember their names... That was never a problem with the men; most of those encounters never even left the club or the party or the bar. There would be an exchange of looks, a mutual sizing up, a nod. A reasonably private place, a fast and desperate clutch. Moist breath and sweat and touch and a sharp, tight exhalation of fluid. Mostly they let him kiss them, and he knew it was because of his blessed mouth; even the old mantra – “I don't kiss.” – broke down once he'd brushed his lips against theirs, given them a taste.  
  
The sex was good, but it was the kissing he truly craved. They never kissed like Roman had; shy and reserved at first, almost chaste, like he was afraid to really be there in the moment with another person. It always drove Deniz deliciously mad, so that he came at Roman hard, insisting on response and engagement, and Roman would open up to him, usually with startling suddenness. He would go on the offensive, shoving Deniz's head back and clutching his hair and pushing his tongue in Deniz's mouth so hard that it felt like drowning.  
  
The men Deniz kissed in the back rooms never made him feel like that; never stole his breath and made him giddy with lack of oxygen. There were a few who would not let him kiss them at all, in spite of the swollen pull of his lips... Usually it was after one of these kiss-less encounters that he felt the need to seek out the other sex, the softness and curves of a woman. Inevitably, the next night, he would go to a “normal” club or bar and turn the charm up to maximum.  
  
It always took a bit longer with the women; there would be meaningless talk, an exchange of soon-forgotten names and finally a negotiation of where to go... and he always made sure the negotiations came around to her place, not his. After a few tries, he'd realized that he couldn't bear to sleep where he'd rutted, and certainly not with some body sprawled together with his.  
  
On and on it went... Posing for a camera, dancing with a stranger, tussling with a body. Weeks, then months, then years, and the ache slowly faded. It never disappeared. He simply refused to think about the source and continued to bury his tongue and his dick into the warm places where the pain didn't have to make sense.  
  
When the thoughts did creep in, often when he was falling into a doze on those nights when he had not gotten his fix, he sometimes wondered if there was something more he could have done. Something he could have said to make Roman stay; to get him to believe in them the way Deniz had... Maybe he'd been too late. It wasn't until the purchase of the flat that Deniz had consciously realized how complete he felt with Roman. Even when they were fighting, even when there was tension and disagreement, even when they seemed to be coming from different planets, Deniz had always wanted to fall asleep tangled up with Roman.  
  
When he'd seen Marc's influence had finally begun pulling Roman away from him, Deniz tried everything... the grand gestures, throwing words at it like Roman had so often done before (even though Deniz's words never worked); finally his last, best, most desperate weapon – deep, hard, panting, sweating, growling, clawing... the one thing that had never suffered between them, even at their worst. Their blessing and their curse. The endless, aching need, the blind nerve endings seeking each other out.  
  
Deniz later found out that it was the thing Marc always targeted in his discussions with Roman, claiming this chemical connection was really all they had. Maybe it had been Deniz's great mistake, mining that connection so deeply in the end.  
  
Deniz didn't connect in any other way after Roman. With anyone. There were friends, of course, and family, and the faceless bodies he used, but there was never love the way there had been with Roman. Mostly Deniz didn't even notice. His days were busy, his nights were busier, and generally he was fine now. As long as he kept his mind quiet...  
  
And Deniz never let himself think about Roman.


	3. Habit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been two years since they've seen each other.

Marc didn't like clubs. Most of the time Roman didn’t mind because most of the time Roman didn’t have any urges to go clubbing. Roman had never been to the club only a few blocks from Marc’s flat, although he’d looked at it curiously on more than one occasion.  
  
When Marc was away on business, Roman would sometimes go to the outdoor café across the street from the club after dinner and sit with a magazine. His eyes would be drawn to the club whenever the door opened; he would hear the thump of music that drifted out as young men emerged sweating into the night and could picture the dark haze of the dance floor and the mingled smell of alcohol and desire. Not that Roman kept this vigil frequently, just... sometimes.  
  
With Marc gone for the week, Roman found himself once again at the café with a magazine unread at his elbow. The draw of the club was stronger than ever, the music like a physical pull; after a while Roman abandoned the magazine and crossed the street. He entered the club, not really sure why.  
  
It was almost exactly as he’d pictured it... dark, smoky, crowded but not full. A dimly-lit bar ran along one wall, and the opposite wall was one large mirror. It gave the illusion of a wider space, while allowing the men dancing there to surreptitiously check out themselves or each other. Lights flashed across the dancers from above in an eye-watering rainbow. Roman spotted a doorway leading up some stairs in the back corner and smiled. A friend had once described these inevitable doorways in every club as the “stairway to heaven...” There had been much eye rolling at this, yet the phrase had been adopted immediately.  
  
Memories clamored as Roman ducked through the crowd and found an open spot at the bar. He ordered a cocktail from the shirtless, tattooed bartender and turned to watch the dance floor while he waited. It had been years since he’d been in such a place, but nothing much had changed. It was comforting. There was a lot of bare skin dewed with sweat, arms twining, necks arching. He watched one couple abandon their grinding and hurry off the dance floor. They climbed the staircase. Roman accepted his drink from the bartender, offered with a wink worthy of a generous tip, and followed the couple.  
  
Before he even got up the stairs, he could hear groans and gasps. The stairs turned once, and again, so that Roman was looking down a long, darkened corridor leading towards the front of the building. There were openings arranged along the hall, each revealing a small room; nearly all of them were occupied. Strolling down the hall he passed some couples, some threesomes, some voyeurs like himself. He sometimes slowed down to watch more closely, sometimes trailed a hand over flexing backs or reaching fingers. Wordless invites were extended. Roman enjoyed the thrill, the sights and sounds and even smells that were exciting, nostalgic. It had been years... the last time had been with Deniz, at Homolulu's. Silly costumes, glitter, a back room...  
  
Roman shook his head. That was the past now. He slowed as he approached the end of the corridor, which was one large room. What was he doing here? Why was he trolling the back rooms of some club while Marc was schmoozing potential investors in London?  _What was he doing?_  
  
Although his brain was already halfway back down the stairs, momentum carried him into the final room. There was only one person there. Roman’s mind was so preoccupied with ending this strange trip down memory lane that he wasn't even stunned by the pale face, the soft brown eyes, the sensual lips. He froze when those eyes met his and widened in surprise.  
  
***  
  
All Deniz could think was, “ _Of course._ ”  
  
When Male Function told him they wanted to do a campaign of European cities, he’d been stoked… until he found out that the last stop would be Paris. The thrill disappeared, replaced with dread. He knew that the likelihood of seeing Roman there was almost nonexistent; it was a huge city and he hadn't a clue where Roman lived. Nonetheless, the entire trip was a slow crescendo of nerves until his arrival.  
  
It was his first time in Paris. He was only in the city for two nights. He was too tired after a day of travel and posing to bother going out the first night. It was almost a relief... it felt safer somehow to stay in and have a few drinks and watch movies on Male Function's bill. As the sun went down on his second night in Paris, he started to get jittery. Everything seemed overly sensual, bringing on thoughts of flexing muscles and moans and moist, hard flesh. He needed a fix. Being here was too close, too much, too scary; even though he knew there was no way he would run into his ex in a huge city full of clubs... it was completely absurd. In the end, he swallowed his trepidation and left the hotel.  
  
When he got to the club, he grabbed a strong drink and went straight for the back room. He didn't even have to search for it; it was like a siren call, leading him where he needed to go. He didn't bother to find a partner before climbing the stairs, trusting that one would find him. He found an empty room and waited. He didn't have to wait long; he never did. When he looked at the small frame, the dark blond hair, the blue eyes which hadn't even had time to widen in surprise, he felt like it had been inevitable, preordained.  
  
“ _Of course,_ ” was all he could think.  
  
***  
  
Roman's inner war was brief but powerful. “ _Run away!_ ” part of him screamed, “ _Go!_ ” Another part immediately insisted he stay and try talking to Deniz, to spew out justifications and explanations and apologies. Anything, anything to wipe away the eye roll and scoff which was now all Deniz had to offer him. “ _This is my fault,_ ” he wanted to explain. “ _I made you turn away from me like that._ ” He didn't have a chance to say anything though. Deniz got up in a quick motion and walked over to Roman. He towered over him, as he always had. His eyes stabbed into Roman. It stopped Roman's breath, that look... how much rage lingered there. How much guilt and despair he felt himself.  
  
Deniz finally broke the gaze and moved past him. Roman closed his eyes, ready to let him keep walking; he was as surprised as Deniz when his hand shot out and grabbed his arm. Roman was pulled around by his momentum even as Deniz spun back to him. They were face-to-face again, eye-to-eye. Roman felt a thousand words racing up his throat like bile, wanting to erupt and vomit all over Deniz's shoes. So many words, too many, and they got stuck, held in place by the reproach in Deniz's eyes; by the way he looked at Roman and begged him wordlessly, pleaded with him not to steal away the resentment he’d held for so long.  
  
Roman wanted to let him go. Wanted to give him that, to let him walk away and to forget he'd ever been here. He wanted to go back to his own safe, easy life with Marc. He couldn't. Why couldn't he?  
  
***  
  
He stared at Roman and felt something boil up. Something he'd been stuffing down since the last time he'd watched Roman from the window of their flat, climbing into Marc's car. He'd broken that day, watching Marc smile at Roman as they loaded Roman's suitcases into the trunk. He'd seen Roman's face, how he didn't return Marc's smile, and for one galvanizing moment Deniz teetered on the edge of diving for the flat’s door. There was just enough doubt on Roman's face to give Deniz one last, devastating shot of hope. He'd put a hand to the flat’s window as the car pulled away, reaching for his cell phone with the other. He'd actually put his finger on the “2” button, ready to push the speed dial, to try one last time, give one last, desperate assurance that he knew Roman was making a mistake.  
  
In the end, he hadn't. In the end, he'd let Roman go.  
  
During those first few months of cold, squirming loneliness, it was the memory that haunted him the most persistently. Roman's face, his own hand on the glass of the window, his finger relaxing off the “2” button.  
  
Now, after all this time, here was Roman. Looking at Deniz again; his face filled with the same doubt, the same wretched, torn ache Deniz had seen on his face before Roman had gotten into Marc's car. Deniz felt himself weakening and it infuriated him. He grabbed Roman's wrists and pushed, shoving him back, following, ramming him against the wall and pressing himself against Roman's whole body. He didn’t mean it to be sexual, only defensive, something to erase that look from Roman's face. He had no right to look that way; to make Deniz feel  _guilty_  for the tears standing in Roman’s eyes.  
  
Once he was there, pressed against Roman, he couldn't look away. He remembered how it had always ended back then; fighting and making up, followed by this. Bodies pressed together, giggles or tears, and oh god, the kisses... so different than with anyone before or since. Familiar enough that it seemed choreographed, yet somehow Roman always found a way to surprise him. His eyes trailed down Roman's face to his lips. Even with two years gone since he'd last kissed Roman, he remembered the taste and his mouth watered for it. Two years of hurt focused to a pinpoint on Deniz's tongue; instead of speaking it, he did what he knew best: he brushed his lips over Roman's, and when Roman's head fell back he opened his mouth and forced his tongue through Roman's lips. There was no response, and Deniz's heart beat fast, his hands curled too tightly around Roman's wrists, not wanting Roman to answer his kiss,  _needing_  him to.  
  
He began to pull away, sure that it was a mistake, sure that  _nothing_  that happened tonight could be anything but... then the surprise came as Roman wrenched his arms from Deniz's grip and clasped his face, pushing the two of them away from the wall with startling force. He met Deniz's tongue with his own and Deniz finally found what it was he'd been blindly seeking from the endless parade of strangers. Even the rage building in his chest could not suppress the bliss of knowing Roman's kiss again.  
  
***  
  
As he pushed himself roughly against Deniz, fleeting thoughts of Marc tried to take hold and could not. All the words dried up as he raked his fingers through Deniz’s hair and curled them, gripping, pulling his body up Deniz’s; helped by Deniz’s hands swiping down his back and gripping his legs, pulling him up in a rough straddle. Deniz turned, pinning Roman hard against the wall. Roman squirmed free of his grip, thumping gracelessly back to his feet, finally breaking the kiss. He clawed at Deniz’s shirt, forcing the black strappy tank top up, needing to touch as much bare skin as possible. Deniz pulled the shirt over his head as Roman brushed lips across first one nipple, then the other. Deniz stopped him by yanking roughly on Roman’s own shirt, tearing a seam under his arm as he pulled it over Roman’s head and came back in again. He braced himself loosely against the wall and kissed Roman, deep and slow and messy.  
  
Roman’s hands trailed down Deniz’s bare back and paused at the edge of his jeans. He dug his fingernails into the skin just above the waistband and Deniz grunted into his mouth. Encouraged, Roman forced his fingers between the tight denim and the firm flesh beneath. Another of those grunts made Roman grin mid-kiss. He clenched his fingers, nails digging into Deniz’s cheeks now. Instead of a grunt he was rewarded with a growl, and Deniz’s hands fumbling with Roman’s belt. Roman pulled his hands out of Deniz’s pants and tried to help, but was batted away. He reached for Deniz instead and by the time he’d gotten belt and pants unfastened his own were loosened and beginning to sag down his legs.  
  
Deniz spun him so that he was facing the wall. Roman was so surprised by the movement that he had to throw out his hands to stop from slamming face-first into it. He was still trying to recover his equilibrium when he felt his underwear pulled down in two rough jerks. Deniz was close enough that his hands, deftly slipping the condom on and swiping the lube up its length, tickled across Roman’s lower back. He began to turn his head to look, but Deniz’s arm abruptly slid under Roman’s, sliding up his bare chest to his neck, which he gripped too tightly. Roman’s heart began to jackhammer as Deniz’s bare skin pressed against his back. His hard cock poked at Roman’s bottom once, twice, then was guided into place by Deniz’s free hand. Roman realized what was about to happen and his breath hitched.  
  
The pressure was sudden, intense, unbearable. He wasn’t ready, wasn’t loosened up, and when Deniz thrust into him with a grunt, the pain was enormous. He cried out, fingers clawing spastically at the wall, every nerve insisting he run, escape, get as far from the pain as possible. Even as his body screamed for flight, his cock continued to stiffen against the wall, denying all the other signals radiating into every extremity.  
  
The hand which had guided Deniz inside now crept around and gripped Roman’s erection tightly, moving up and down with a slow gentleness that had been absent in the penetration. Roman groaned, nerve endings sending out chaotic signals of pain and pleasure and making his fingers and toes tingle. It only took a moment for Deniz’s motion to relax him enough to loosen; the pain began to abate. Deniz started to move his hips, slowly. His hand left Roman’s shaft and slid up his stomach, his embrace tight. His other hand stayed grasped around Roman’s throat. Although they were moving slowly, their breath came harsh and fast.  
  
***  
  
Deniz had felt the grin on Roman’s lips when he’d reacted to Roman’s touch. It had sparked the fury and sent it rushing and tumbling out of his chest and through his skin. He’d pushed himself into Roman so hard and fast that he felt Roman’s entire body tense up with the pain, and heard his strangled cry over the pounding of the music from below. The rage blew away for a moment, replaced with sorrow and shame. Was this who he was now? Was this what he’d become?  
  
Roman’s whole body was trembling, and he knew that Roman was a breath away from breaking. Deniz’s instinct was to pull out and put a stop to it right then, but he didn’t. Instead he reached around Roman’s body and gripped his cock. He was surprised by how hard it was, in spite of the pain he was putting Roman through. He stroked slowly, squeezing in the rhythm he knew Roman liked, not bothering to wonder at how he remembered. He felt Roman relax gradually around his hardness. As he did, Deniz began to rock himself carefully, sliding gently inside Roman, helping to loosen him. His own body responded to the pleasant friction, and he released Roman’s cock and moved his hand up his chest.  
  
As he began to thrust faster, his breath becoming ragged, he felt the anger building up again. It hadn’t disappeared, had merely been overshadowed briefly by concern. He pushed himself deeper in, and images began to flash in the darkness behind his eyes, images that had haunted him for two years: Roman and Marc, twined together naked, Marc smiling in that infuriatingly knowing way as Roman arched and groaned, eyes closed. In these visions Marc’s smile always looked like a leer, and Roman’s face was twisted with a passion Deniz had never been able to produce in him... He’d never actually seen them together like this, of course; it was his own traitor imagination producing these false memories. It happened often when he was with another man. Never this clearly, though. Never this sharp and immediate.  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut against the images, thrusting harder as he did, clenching everything. It was Roman here now, with him, but his brain insisted that this was just another random fuck in an unfamiliar back room, another small blond who would satisfy the fix and never be seen again. It would be so much easier that way. So he fucked like it was nobody. Fucked until he could feel the tension building towards release. He held on as tight as he could and thrust mindlessly.  
  
***  
  
It was hard to breathe here, caught up in Deniz’s rutting embrace. His hand was too tight at Roman’s throat, and getting tighter; his other arm like a steel girder across Roman’s chest, fingers dug into the soft area under his arm; it was taking most of Roman’s strength to keep them pushed away from the wall as Deniz pounded into him. Roman was gasping and moaning, teetering on that fine line between pleasure and pain. He was scared too. Part of him wanted it to stop... but most of him didn’t. That part of him wanted this to go on forever, to keep hurting. That part believed he deserved this.  
  
After a few minutes, Deniz’s grip became iron and he drove himself in as deep as he could. Roman wheezed in breath through the small opening left in his compressed windpipe as a crystal-sharp pain radiated suddenly from the soft spot between his neck and his right shoulder. As Deniz came, he’d bitten down savagely hard.  
  
Finally spent, Deniz sagged against him. Roman gasped for breath as Deniz’s hands relaxed and allowed airflow to resume. Roman waited for him to pull out, relief warring with disappointment that it was over. Deniz didn’t pull out, instead sliding his hand down Roman’s stomach and once again gripping his cock. Roman opened his mouth to protest, but stopped when his hips responded helplessly to Deniz’s pumping fist. Some sound of negation oozed wordlessly from his mouth as Deniz resumed the motion of his own hips, adding to the pleasure-pain-pleasure burning up his body. A red fog took over his vision as Deniz drew his nails deep across Roman’s chest, plunged his still-hard cock into Roman’s ass, worked his fist up and down Roman’s shaft with no tenderness this time. Roman’s fingers clawed slowly into the wall, clenching as the pressure built. He wanted to tell Deniz to stop but he couldn’t speak. All that came out of his mouth were incoherent sounds as the red fog closed down all around him. He could hear nothing, see nothing, smell nothing, taste nothing; all that was left was nerve endings, bursting out from every pore and filling all the empty space in the room.  
  
Then it was over, and he slumped against the wall. Every inch of his body was shaking; he barely noticed when Deniz pulled out. He heard the snap of the condom being removed, the rustle and jingle of clothing as Deniz dressed. There was a pause then, and Roman looked around blearily. Deniz was standing near the doorway, fully reassembled and looking as though he’d just walked in the room. He wasn't looking at Roman; he simply stood there as though unsure of what to do next. Roman knew he should pull his own pants back up, push himself away from the come dripping down the wall in front of him, but he couldn’t seem to find the strength. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Deniz was gone.


	4. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time and distance and denial changed nothing.

Roman wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, forehead against the wall, pants around his ankles. Not too long; the stain in front of him was still oozing wetly down the wall. When his legs finally stopped shaking, he reached down and pulled up his pants. Looking around, Roman spotted his shirt on the floor near the opposite wall. He put it on, vaguely noting the ripped seam. He pulled it over his head and down his body, every brush of flesh leaving a trail of tingles he could almost see, like a sweep of glitter under his skin.  
  
He moved slowly down the hall, as unaware of the other occupants of the back rooms as they were of him. Thoughts were clamoring around his edges, trying to get inside, to start berating and rationalizing and analyzing; but his mind remained blissfully blank.  
  
Once downstairs, he went into the bathroom to take advantage of the mirror in private. He was a little surprised at how normal he looked... hair a little mussed, shirt pulled a bit out of shape, eyes a tad dull. The worst of the evidence was hidden by his shirt: a purple-bruising bite mark between neck and shoulder, and three vertical scratches across his chest. Easy enough to hide... except from Marc; not for as long as they would take to heal. Roman was simply too used up to think about the implications, enormous and terrifying as they were.  
  
He focused on the physical instead, the here and now, wetting his hands and running them over his face and through his hair. He straightened his shirt and made sure his belt was buckled and his fly was zipped. When the ritual of appearance was complete, he took a breath and pushed the bathroom door open. The thudding of the music, no longer muffled by the bathroom walls, bounced through him and back out again. Lights flashed in his squinting eyes. Although he skirted the dance floor, a few bodies collided with his... their control was slippery, lubricated by alcohol. He barely noticed, his eyes steady on the door of the club. He was ready to become one of them now, the ones he had observed so often from the café across the street, emerging into the night on a cloud of flashing light and thumping rhythm and spent sexual energy. He paused for a second as the door closed behind him, shutting away that swirling, sweating, glittering world. He turned and began to walk in the direction of the flat. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his head down, eyes on the sidewalk in front of him.  
  
***  
  
Roman opened his eyes to morning sunshine streaming through the living room window.  
  
He squeezed them shut against the brightness, yawning. When he opened them again he pushed himself into a slumped sitting position on the couch. The resulting pressure triggered a dull ache. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, though it had been a surprisingly long time since he’d felt it; the lingering sensation of an act that could never be mistaken for "making love."  
  
He was slow getting up. His whole body felt sore and stiff. After getting home last night he’d flopped onto the couch without even bothering to undress. Padding across the living room now, he stripped off his shirt with the ripped seam and dropped it to the floor. Pants and underwear came next and were similarly discarded, wallet and keys still in the pockets. He reached the shower and turned on the water. He climbed in and let it pound his skin, relaxing his stressed muscles and easing the tension in his limbs. He felt cored out somehow, like something had been scooped out of him, leaving a wound that was gaping but clean.  
  
After nearly half an hour he shut the water off and walked naked out of the bathroom, toweling off as he moved through the living room. The flat glowed in the warmth of the morning sun, exactly as it was designed to. Light melted into the dark leathers of the furniture, created mellow reflections in the brass and silver accents, washed across the carefully selected tribal artifacts and wicker accessories that were Marc's favored ambiance. Roman had often seen the apartment in this particular angle of sunlight... but today it looked different, somehow. Everything did.  
  
The apartment hadn’t really changed at all in the two years since Roman had arrived. The décor, the furnishings, then Feng Shui... Marc's taste had always been impeccable. This wasn’t what struck Roman as he looked around the flat with narrowing eyes. What struck him was how little of  _himself_  he saw. The only real exception was a single framed picture of him and Marc in front of the Eiffel Tower, taken shortly after his move to Paris. Roman tossed the damp towel over the back of the leather couch and picked up the picture. He looked at it for a long time.  
  
It wasn’t really surprising, perhaps, that his presence was absent in the flat’s personality; they were both busy and there was little time for décor shopping or renovation plans. Besides, he hadn’t brought more than a few suitcases of clothing with him from Essen, hadn’t even bothered with his beloved trophies and medals. He glanced up from the picture. It all made so much sense, how nothing had changed to make Roman fit. He’d fit just fine into what was already here... didn’t he?  
  
He set the picture down and walked back to the bedroom. He opened his wardrobe and pushed some clothes aside. At the bottom, next to some old shoes that were really too beat up to wear but which he couldn’t stand to throw away, was a dusty old shoe box. Heart thudding, he picked it up and sat on the floor. He opened it for the first time in years; the only thing inside was a black and white picture in a frame. Him and Deniz, arms twined, sipping champagne from flutes as they stared in each other’s eyes. Both grinning and covered in glitter. It was the only thing he’d taken from their flat before leaving; he didn’t know if Deniz even realized he had it.  
  
After a few moments he put the picture back in the box, and the box back in the wardrobe. He pulled out some fresh jeans and an old t-shirt he hadn’t worn in ages (“J’taime Paris,” usually far too touristy for his taste considering where he lived now). He fished his wallet and keys out of his discarded jeans and left the flat.  
  
***  
  
He ended up in a park. It was a bit of a walk, nearly a mile, but there were lots of trees and benches and very few tourists in the mid-morning lull. He got coffee from a kiosk near the park entrance and chose a bench by a small fountain. He was meant to be at the ice rink in just over an hour to work with a new skater he’d hired. He let his eyes drift as he went over the routine in his head.  _He’ll need at least a week to learn the routine and then we can start working on his technical issues. He tends to come out of his jumps too far on his edge and we’ll have to work on generally strengthening his landings. And really, what are the chances that the one time I go into that club, Deniz is there. What is he even_  doing  _in Paris?_  
  
He shook his head and focused on the routine again.  _He came out of his spin a bit too soon on the first change, it messed up the timing for the next three beats. What was I thinking, kissing him like that? Just jumping on him like Marc doesn't exist, like Deniz has only been out of my life for days, not years?_  
  
He shifted a little and let his eyes slide over to the fountain.  _He’s taller than the last skater, we’ll have to meet with the costume department, and it’s never like that with Marc, is it? The complete loss of thought and speech and dear god those lips..._  
  
Roman’s hands began to clench tightly around the empty cup. He had to stop thinking about this. The past was the past and-  
  
 _No,_  he thought with sudden vehemence.  _NO! After what happened last night, there’s no more dodging thoughts of Deniz. No more pretending he’s some figment from the past. He lives in your heart and he always has._  
  
Clichéd as it was, he couldn’t ignore the essential truth of it: Deniz was a part of him and always would be. Time and distance and denial changed nothing. If he needed any evidence of that he need only think back twelve hours, how even after  _two years_ they’d fallen immediately back into each other. It had been dark, certainly; full of rage and pain and fear and sorrow and a dark, desperate need like he'd never experienced before... not even during the end of his relationship with Deniz. But none of those things stopped it from being the most profound connection he’d had with another human being since leaving Essen... since he'd taken one last miserable look around his neighborhood and entertained one last wild, desperate hope that Deniz would burst from their flat and try to stop him leaving; since he'd given up any final resistance and gotten into Marc's car.  
  
He wondered if he should regret what had happened last night. He didn’t want to hurt Marc; that was the last thing he wanted. He loved Marc, loved his knowing grin and the way it hid his insecurity; the way he would get excited about something, some new idea for the show or a favorite opera returning to the city, and bounce towards Roman like a six-year-old on a sugar high; he loved how Marc would look at him just before they kissed. They had always been good together... but then there was Deniz; the boy who had gangled into Roman's life one day five years ago and changed it forever.  
  
He thought of how it had been between them... one moment in love, the next snarling in each other’s faces, then snogging with such mad abandon that doing anything else seemed incomprehensible. Even in the quiet moments there was always something moving and aware between them... without looking or listening, Roman had always known where Deniz was in the room, the space he occupied. He knew Deniz had the same awareness of him... not because they’d ever talked about it; he simply  _knew,_  through that inexplicable connection they seemed to share. Perhaps it was that connection which had drawn him into the club last night.  
  
Roman closed his eyes, picturing the back room. Deniz so angry, bursting with such rage that Roman actually feared that Deniz might be lost, finally destroyed by it after all this time. It was only after that first excruciating penetration, when Deniz had stopped, had worked Roman through it, that he realized Deniz was with him after all, not so far gone as he feared. Remembering the moments just after, when he’d been trembling against the wall... he’d looked around at Deniz, who was already dressed; Deniz, who wouldn’t look at him. Roman had expected to see exasperation or rage or disgust on his face. Instead there’d been a horrible mix of confusion, self-loathing, and fear. Roman wondered if Deniz had really been running away from him last night… maybe Deniz had been running from  _himself._  
  
And what did Deniz do when things became too much for him? He went into denial. He lied, he avoided, he drowned it all in booze or drugs or sex until he didn’t have to think about it anymore. Roman had watched him do it before, more than once. What if he was out there somewhere right now, doing it again?  
  
There was no grand decision as Roman stood up from the bench and absently tossed his empty cup into the trash, no clear answers as he walked out of the park and back towards Marc’s flat. But one thing was perfectly obvious as he distractedly dug his keys out of his pocket: he needed to talk to Deniz. The sooner, the better.  
  
He was so focused on getting into the building that he tripped over the legs of someone sprawled on his step. He stumbled gracelessly into the wall, then turned to look at who he’d tripped over.  
  
 _Deniz._


	5. Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you really want, Öztürk? Why are you here?

By the time Deniz reached the door of the club, he had almost worked himself up to a run. Thoughts were yammering around his brain, gnawing at the edges and making every muscle in his body tight. One thought began to crystalize from the din and repeat as he pushed his way through the door and into the blessedly cool night air: _Did I really just do that? With_  Roman?  
  
He paused at the little outdoor café across the street, scurried behind a row of tall potted plants and peered through them to watch the front of the club. He danced from foot to foot, hands twining with each other or darting up to his mouth so he could chew on a nail. The front door opened twice in the five minutes he waited there, spilling out drunk, laughing men both times... but no Roman. He checked his watch again; with a nervous rush of breath, he moved to step around the plants. He had to go back into the club; to do  _what_  he had no idea. He stopped when the club’s door opened and Roman walked out.  
  
Someone who didn’t know Roman might not have noticed anything wrong; they might have thought he was maybe a little drunk or a little tired, or a little of both. Deniz wasn’t fooled. He watched with deepening concern as Roman walked slowly up the street, head down and arms wrapped tightly around his body, all his natural bouncing energy gone. When he turned a corner, Deniz hurried after him.  
  
Roman never looked around as he walked. Deniz followed half a block or so behind, walking quietly and keeping close to things he could duck behind. Roman’s attention never wavered from where he was placing his feet. After a few minutes he turned into a building, absently digging keys out of his pocket and letting himself in. Deniz watched the front of the building, and a moment later lights came on in one of the windows. He went up to the building and looked at the intercom system. He found the button labeled “Hagendorf” and touched it. Anger sparked up again, but not at Roman this time; could that asshole not even be bothered to add Roman’s name to the flat list? After  _two years?_  
  
Something broke inside Deniz... all the anger and sorrow of two years collided with the fear and confusion over what had just happened and mixed with the old, mad desire for Roman. It struck him as physical pain in his chest and stomach, doubling him over. He reached out blindly and braced himself against the corner of the building, wondering if he was going to puke or pass out or what... A whining groan escaped him as he folded up into a ball on the stairs to the building’s entrance. Tears squeezed out of his eyes and ran down his face...  
  
He’d spent so long pushing it down, stuffing it inside, sewing up the incision and numbing it with booze or cauterizing it with sex. He’d thought it healed, or at least made scar tissue, something he would always feel in some distant and indefinable way but was part of his past. And now... now he knew that the wound was not only unhealed but festering and infected. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, arms wrapped around his knees, sobbing and scared and every cell screaming in pain. After a while he folded it back in, curled it back into his body again until he could get up.  
  
He didn’t look up as he walked back towards the main road. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, his head down, eyes glued to the sidewalk.  
  
***  
  
The bright ring of the hotel phone drilled into his ear. He reached blindly, knocking a water bottle off the bed stand and sending the clock skittering to the other end before finding the receiver and snatching it up. He held it to his ear with a grunt that might have been an attempt at a greeting, but it wasn't necessary... it was a recorded message informing him that this was his wake-up call. He forced one eye open enough to locate the phone base and hang it up.  
  
He rubbed his hands up his face and through his hair as though trying to wipe away the confused blur of his dreams... thrumming music and strobing lights and fingers and breath and lips... he dropped his hands to his sides and stared up at the ceiling.  
  
 _Is Roman ok?_  
  
He began the morning hotel ritual. He dug through his suitcase until he found something resembling an outfit. Jeans and t-shirt, his standard non-modeling outfit. The shirt was an old one, black with some quasi-religious imagery that meant nothing to him.  _Is Roman ok?_  Finding underwear and socks that were clean enough to wear. Figuring out how to turn on the shower and what setting was hot enough.  _Is Roman ok?_  Wrestling enough shampoo out of the tiny bottle. Soaping up, rinsing off.  _Is Roman ok?_  Escaping the steam-filled bathroom to towel off and dress. Brushing his teeth. Gelling his hair.  _Is Roman ok?_  
  
He looked at the itinerary and saw that a cab would be picking him up at the hotel to take him to the airport at noon. He glanced at the clock; it was only 10:00.  _Is he ok? Is he ok? Is Roman ok?_  
  
He picked up the phone and called the front desk for a cab.  
  
***  
  
Deniz paid the driver and got out in front of the flat he'd watched Roman disappear into last night. He hurried over to the intercom system, found the button next to “Hagendorf,” and pressed it. He waited as long as he could stand, then pushed it again, leaning on it longer this time. He backed out of the doorway and looked up at the windows. No sign of Roman. He bounced back in and pushed the buzzer again, hitting the wall beside it with his other hand. He backed out of the doorway and bellowed Roman's name up at the window, again and again.  
  
Finally he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and pushed the speed dial programmed on “2.” It rang twice before the operator came on the line and told him the number had been disconnected. He swore and hung up, although he wasn’t surprised... of course Roman would have changed his number when he moved to another country.  
  
Dancing from foot to foot, he debated his options. He could call Annette, the one person he knew would have Roman’s current number. But she would want to know why he was trying to call Roman after all this time; the thought of explaining anything, even leaving out what had happened last night, made him feel a little ill. No, this had to be between the two of them for now. He thought about calling around to some hospitals... he didn’t think he’d hurt Roman enough to warrant a hospital visit, and even if he had (his stomach writhed), he had no way of knowing where Roman would be, or if they would tell him anything.  
  
 _Fine,_  he thought, sitting on the steps to the flat building.  _Fine then. I’ll just wait. Sooner or later he’ll have to either leave or come home._  
  
It always took Deniz a little longer to think his way through things than others. Especially Roman, whose mind and mouth both worked faster than anyone he’d ever known. The combination of their paces had sometimes been frustrating for both of them, causing more than one fight about the importance of time management or the value of patience. Still, more often than not they balanced each other in a much-needed way... Roman made Deniz work to keep up with him even as Deniz forced Roman to slow down and breathe. What should have torn them apart instead made them love each other more. After climbing into a cab last night and muttering the name of his hotel, Deniz had barely allowed himself to think about what had happened in the club. He imagined that Roman, wherever he was now, had already analyzed it half to death, picked over every detail and nuance until it was laid bare before him. The thought of it broke through Deniz’s nagging worry enough to make him smile and think,  _“Roman.”_  
  
He supposed he would need to have some idea of what to say when he saw Roman again. Did he apologize? Rant? Try to explain when he didn’t really understand it himself? Did he simply make sure Roman was whole and unhurt and then walk away?  
  
 _What do you really want, Öztürk? Why are you here?_  
  
He just wanted to make sure Roman was ok, right? That he’d done no real damage. Even as he thought it, he shook his head a little. The thought was ridiculous, insulting even... Roman wasn’t some porcelain doll, to be handled with care and prone to breaking. Roman was one of the strongest people he’d ever known. Able to withstand near-constant physical pain on the ice, for years, just for love of the sport; when faced with adversity, Roman never backed down, never gave up. He was capable of mistakes, of course... when age began to leech away his sustainability on the ice, he’d turned to performance-enhancing drugs in spite of his own beliefs about such things; he’d pursued Deniz with alarming persistence even after Deniz had started seeing Vanessa; he’d enabled Deniz’s experimentation with drugs and alcohol with the hope of getting close to Deniz just one more time. He’d backed off all of these things when his own moral gray area darkened too much towards black, turning his back on whatever had led him astray. It wasn’t like Deniz thought Roman was perfect... he was cynical and bitchy and quick to cut with his gifted tongue. And, although Roman would never admit to it, he was also incredibly kind and patient, supportive, and fiercely loving. The way he loved, with every fiber of his body and soul, could be overwhelming... until it faded, or turned to someone else, and you suddenly realized how much that love had melded into you and made you whole.  
  
 _Seriously, Öztürk. What. Are. You. Doing. Here?_  
  
Seeing Roman again had been... indescribable. So much had come raging out of him last night; all the feelings of betrayal and abandonment, all the anger and sorrow and desire and loneliness and  _oh god I miss him so much..._  
  
It was insane to be right back where he’d been two years ago, like Roman had only left Essen yesterday. Like Deniz had jumped immediately on a plane and come looking for Roman, been drawn exactly to where he would be without a single doubt. It was as though the past two years had never happened, had simply been some drawn-out nightmare that had sent him rocketing straight to Roman to beg for one last chance, one last hope that he could convince Roman that it was wrong to leave him, to abandon the sum of them which was so much greater than their individual parts. To explain to Roman how much better Deniz was  _with_  him, how much Roman had helped him to grow and change and become a man... but how, without that essential piece of the puzzle that was Roman, he simply turned back into the petulant child; forever seeking and never finding. To hope that maybe, just maybe, there was some part of Roman that  _Deniz_  filled and made whole.  
  
Mostly he just wanted to fold Roman into his arms, and touch his face, and kiss him again.  
  
He scowled and swiped away the tear that had slipped down his cheek.  _So what are you saying? You want to get back together with him? You don’t even know if he’s the same person. You certainly don’t know if_  you  _are._  
  
It was true. He had no idea how much they had changed, and how completely things had changed between them, to know if they could ever be  _Deniz and Roman_  again. All he knew was that it wasn’t fate or destiny that had brought them together last night; it was simple dumb luck, blind coincidence. The kind of thing that would never happen again, and he wasn’t going to ignore the chance he’d been given, to fix himself and to just...  _try._  
  
He was startled out of his thoughts by a foot connecting with his ankle, sending a momentary bolt of pain up his leg. He watched as the person who he’d unintentionally tripped stumbled into the wall, barely catching himself in time to save a bloody nose. He managed to right himself, and Deniz’s heart almost stopped.  
  
 _Roman._


End file.
